


When the Stars Have All Burned Out

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer causes problems even from beyond the grave.  Dean saves the day with some assistance from on high, and Castiel makes a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Stars Have All Burned Out

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Secret Santa exchange at [](http://deancas-xmas.livejournal.com/profile)[**deancas_xmas**](http://deancas-xmas.livejournal.com/), for [](http://heavenlyxbodies.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://heavenlyxbodies.livejournal.com/)**heavenlyxbodies**

There is blistering heat, and searing pain, and the sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh. There are soundless, gasping cries and waves of overwhelming hopelessness, and it is all wrapped in darkness so penetrating that it’s like being blind. For long moments, he thinks he is trapped in one of his nightmares of Hell…nightmares he hasn’t had in months.

And then there is a flash, of lightning or of fire, and light floods his vision, and he can _see_. He can _see_ the rack in front of him. He can _see_ Castiel spread on it. And this isn’t a nightmare _of_ Hell, this _is_ Hell, it has to be, because nothing – nothing – has ever felt as real as the terror that floods him at the sight.

Castiel is naked, and bound tightly by manacles that glow with familiar-looking sigils. His eyes are closed, his head slumped forward, and brutal tremors run through his body…a body that has been abused and broken in ways that Dean knows only too well. He looks defeated, and that scares Dean more than anything.

“No…” he says, and it’s nothing but a whisper of breath, but it attracts the angel’s attention, because he blinks and tilts his head up to look at him. Those blue eyes seem to pierce right through him as they widen, and then Castiel begins to struggle. Bindings cut into his wrists, and blood flows freely from so many wounds, but Dean can’t move, can’t make himself go to Castiel to calm him, can only stare in abject horror as the angel continues to scream silent screams and tear himself to pieces.

“You’re not Dean!” Castiel snarls as he continues to thrash uselessly against the bindings. “You will not make me break like this!”

And that gets Dean moving. He takes a shaky step forward, and then another, and another, and he’s by the angel’s side. “Castiel. Oh, God, Castiel…” He reaches up, and his hand is shaking as he touches it to Castiel’s shoulder. The angel jerks and cries out, and Dean steps back quickly, swallowing at the rage he sees in Castiel’s eyes. “Cas, come on, you need to calm down,” he all but begs. “Castiel. It’s _me_ , man, I swear. Please, just calm down, stop hurting yourself…”

He doesn’t think the words themselves have any effect on Castiel, but the tone of his voice clearly does, because almost immediately, the thrashing eases, and something in the angel’s expression softens, just a little as he stares hard at Dean. “Dean?” he says, unsure, his voice raspy in a way Dean’s never heard it.

The hunter takes a slow step forward again, but leaves his hands at his side. “Yeah. C’mon, Cas, you _know_ me. You know me better than anyone.” He swallows again, takes a breath to try and calm himself. “Who did this to you? Where…” But that, he doesn’t need to finish. He knows Hell, spent forty years learning all the worst parts of it, and somehow, that’s where he’s found himself, though he can distinctly remember going to sleep in a tiny motel room in Michigan last night.

Castiel continues to stare, confusion marring his features. “I don’t understand…this is a trick. It _must_ be. Dean can’t…be here.”

There’s a knot in his throat that makes it hard to breathe. It’s been a month since he plunged Michael’s sword into Lucifer, a month since he and Sam saved the world, twenty-eight days since he last saw any sign of the angels, any sign of _Cas_ , and he’d assumed they’d all been recalled to Heaven. He’d never thought… And god, if it’s been a month for _him_ …it’s been _ten years_ for Castiel.

It’s him that’s filled with a burning rage now, and he strides forward, reaches for the binding holding Castiel…and swears violently when his hand passes right through them.

A look of intense relief passes over Castiel’s battered face, and his eyes close for a moment. “Dean,” he says, and this time it’s a sigh. “It is you.”

“What the f -”

“You’re not really here, Dean,” the angel says, eyes opening again. The beginnings of a _smile_ make his mouth twitch, and Dean doesn’t understand, can’t process what the hell’s going on here. “You are dreaming. The angels…this is their doing. It must be.”

“But why would they -” Dean cuts himself off. Trying to figure out why the angels do anything is damn near impossible, and it doesn’t really matter anywhere. They clearly wanted Dean to know that Cas was here, and now that Dean knows, he’s going to do everything in his power to get him the hell out. The angels _had_ to have known that, at least.

He steps forward again, and this time, Castiel doesn’t flinch when his hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He wonders, briefly, why he can touch Castiel, but not anything else, but that doesn’t really matter either, not in the long run.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Dean says, his tone of voice leaving no room for doubt as he tilts Castiel’s head up so that the angel is looking him in the eye. “I’m _going_ to get you out, you hear me? Don’t you fucking give up on that. Don’t you dare break.” He doesn’t care how hypocritical of him it is to give that particular order to anyone. He won’t let Castiel become the empty shell that he himself was for so long. He _won’t_.

Castiel seems to draw strength from him, because he draws himself up as much as he can and manages a nod, never even questions what Dean is telling him, never points out how impossible the task he’s just set for himself is. “I won’t break, Dean. I swear it.”

Dean searches his eyes, finds the conviction within them. “Good. I _will_ come for you, Cas.”

“I know.”

And then there is no time for more words, because Hell is fading around him, and the bright blue of Castiel’s eyes is the last thing he sees as consciousness tugs at him.

\- + - + - + - + -

Dean bolts upright in bed, his heart racing, the scar on his arm burning. He scrubs a hand over his face and glances over at Sam, who is snoring lightly on the other bed.

“Dean Winchester.”

It says something about how used to his own angel he’d gotten over the past few years that he is not surprised any longer when others randomly pop into his room. He is curious, however, how this one managed to find him. The symbols carved into his ribs are as active as they always were, and should be hiding him and Sam.

The angel sitting by the window is inhabiting a female vessel, a young woman with wispy locks of honey colored hair and a captivating violet gaze that he can just make out in the moonlight. She wears a delicate-looking white dress, and little else. Her feet are bare, and she wears no jewelry. Her voice is light, airy, and so quiet he has to strain a little to hear it.

“Who are you?” he asks first, because that’s probably more important than how she found him. In the other bed, Sam stirs, but does not wake.

“My name is unimportant. I am, or was, a friend to Castiel. For his, and your own, services to Heaven, I was given leave to come down here, to help you retrieve him. But I do not have much time, and that limited amount has already been cut short with the time it took to locate you.”

He is almost inexplicably angry at that, because it sounds almost like she’s implying that if she fails in her effort to rescue Castiel, it will be his own fault. But rather than waste even more time with yelling, Dean swallows the anger down and folds his arms over his chest. “You sent me down there, in my dream?” he asks, needing to understand more.

She nods, her gaze serene. “Once I found you, I had to locate Castiel. Hell is a vast place, and we haven’t enough time for you to search. You are connected to my brother, in ways that even the Host does not fully understand. I used that connection to send your consciousness to him. Now that you have seen him and know where he is, I should be able to send you directly to him, without wasting precious time searching.”

Dean doesn’t like the word ‘should’. But he won’t argue…if there’s even half a chance that this angel can help him rescue Castiel, he’ll take it, no matter the risks, and no matter the odds. “What do we have to do?” He’s already swinging his legs out of bed and pulling on clothes. The fact that he’s trusting his fate and Castiel’s to an angel he’s just met and knows he shouldn’t trust speaks of his desperation.

“The trap the Lucifer set for Castiel before you destroyed him is very old, and very powerful. It is not only Castiel _the angel_ , the essence if you will, who is trapped there. His physical form, the vessel he possesses, was dragged down as well, and he was bound to it. That is how the demons are holding him. To capture an angel otherwise, and keep them tied to Hell, would be next to impossible. The manacles that keep him bound cannot be undone by our kind, which is why we needed you, Dean. There are risks, of course, that you must fully consider. A mortal, a living mortal, cannot possibly hope to survive in Hell in regular circumstances. Such a thing is simply not possible, and without my assistance, the only way you would even make it there would be to first die.”

Dean stares, his mouth a bit slack.

Seeing his look, the angel quirks a small smile. “This is, of course, only true of most _normal_ mortals. You, however, are in possession of a small amount of angelic grace. We believe that will protect you sufficiently, for at least as long as it takes to get to my brother.”

The ‘we believe’ bothers Dean even more than the ‘should’ had earlier. But he pushes it aside and focuses on what’s important. _Cas._ “How do we get out again?”

“Once you have freed Castiel, he will have the means to bring you back.” The serene gaze does not waver, but it does sharpen. “You understand, of course, what that means?”

“If I fail, if I can’t get him free, or I’m caught by one of the demons, I’ll be trapped. And there won’t be a ticket out by angelic express this time.”

She nods. “They will be able to keep your physical body alive indefinitely, thanks to the sliver of grace you carry. Because Hell is not a part of this plane, time does not exist as it does here…you will not even be given the luxury of your body aging and dying. The horrors you would endure would be unimaginable, a thousand times worse then what your soul knew before. Only you can decide if it’s worth the risk. You’re soul is no longer bound for Hell, but there will be nothing we can do should the worst happen.”

It’s not even a choice, because it’s _Cas_ , and he’ll be damned (har, har) if he’s going to let the demons keep him. Cas is _his_ , as much as he himself belongs to the angel, and beyond that, when he makes a promise, he damn well keeps it. He tugs his boots on, and lets that be his answer.

“Will you tell your brother what you’re doing, where you’re about to go?” the angel inquires, and they both glance to the other bed, to the younger Winchester who is still sleeping soundly with his hair mussed and a tiny bit of drool seeping out of the corner of his open mouth.

Dean’s eyes close for a moment, pain at the thought of leaving Sammy warring with the desperate need he has to rescue Castiel. A year ago, less probably, he would have clenched his teeth, stood, and walked out of the motel room without a backward glance. But he and Sam have come a long way, and his little brother deserves more than an empty bed where Dean should be when he wakes.

With this thought in mind, Dean strides to the bed and leans over Sam’s sleeping form, touching his shoulder gently to wake him. The younger Winchester’s eyes open almost immediately, though his expression is bleary and disconnected for a moment until his gaze catches Dean’s. “What’s going on?” he asks, alert now and struggling to sit up.

Dean reaches out, holds him down gently. “Don’t get up. I just wanted to let you know I was leaving. Gotta take off for a bit, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Didn’t want you worrying.” He tries to keep his tone light, but isn’t sure if he succeeds or not.

Probably not, judging by Sam’s expression. “Dean, _what’s going on?_ ” he repeats, and fights off Dean’s hold so that he’s sitting and glaring up at his brother.

The older hunter manages a small smile that he hopes looks reassuring. “Cas is in trouble, and the angels need my help to find him. Just a basic search and rescue, that’s all.”

“Let me come with you,” Sam says, challenging because he knows Dean, knows when he’s trying to downplay something big.

“I gotta do this on my own, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is soft, full of the brutal honesty that he knows Sam doesn’t want to hear. “You need to trust me. Okay?”

Sam nods because he has no choice, and because, after everything, both he and Dean refuse to leave things between them on a fight, no matter what the circumstances. “Be careful,” he says, standing and wrapping Dean in a hug that the older hunter refuses to admit he finds comforting. He claps Sam on the shoulder, nods once, and then looks back to the angel.

“Are you ready?” she asks, not even acknowledging Sam’s presence as the younger brother studies her from the corner of his eye.

Dean smirks in a way he knows is completely infuriating and says, “Let’s do this thing.” He sounds much braver and much calmer than he feels.

The angel stands gracefully, steps forward, and presses two slender fingers to his forehead.

\- + - + - + - + -

Dean looks around, and his eyes widen. A shudder races through him at the familiar-looking alter, and that’s all he allows himself to see as he slams his eyes shut and forces himself to just keep breathing.

“I apologize,” the angel beside him says softly. “It did not occur to me that you would associate this place with so much pain, but of course, I should have realized. If this was not so urgent, we could use another gateway, but this is the most powerful, and the only one still open, though the angels keep it hidden so the demons do not know.”

Dean opens his eyes, but stares resolutely down and does not look around the small church at all. He would have been perfectly content to pretend Ilchester, Maryland never existed, but they’re here to do a job, and he intends to see it done no matter his personal feelings about the locale. “Just tell me what to do,” he grits out.

“You will need to stand in the center of the gateway,” the angel replied, “and focus all your thoughts on my brother, on where and how you saw him, and on your feelings for him, whatever they may be. I must perform the ritual myself. Once it is complete, you will have only a short amount of time to find Castiel, but if all goes as it should, you will already be very close to him. The rest, you know.”

“Free him, don’t get caught, have him fly us the fuck out. Easy as pie.” The blood has been washed away, but his steps don’t falter for even a moment as he goes to stand where the door to Lucifer’s prison had opened. That memory will be scorched into his mind until the day he dies. Probably longer. His eyes burn with fierce determination as they find the angel’s. “Do it.”

There is something like pride, or maybe just simple admiration, in her gaze as she draws a small knife across her arm. Both, coming from an angel that isn’t _his_ angel, make him feel uncomfortable, but he stays silent as she uses an elegant finger to begin drawing those strange Enochian symbols around the invisible circle he’s standing in. Just before she finishes the final one, she glances up at him, waits for him to nod. He closes his eyes, takes a breath…

…And then he is back in the place of all his worst nightmares.

\- + - + - + - + -

For long moments, he can’t breathe. An acrid stench burns his mouth, his throat, his lungs…it fills him, sets fire to him, and leaves him gasping but unable to draw a breath. He is on his knees with a hand clutched at his chest, trying to do everything in his power to just get one breath, just one…

It takes him seconds that each feel like an eternity to notice the buzzing sound in his ears, the tingling scar on his arm, but when he looks down at his hand and realizes he’s _glowing_ with a soft white halo of light, he becomes consciously aware of both. And then he can breathe again, finally, and his lungs suck in grateful, greedy gulps of air.

When he clambers back to his feet (still glowing, and hell if wandering demons aren’t going to notice _that_ when they see him) and looks around, he recognizes that he is in the lower bowels of Hell. He spent enough time here –

_Forty years, forty intensely painful, endless years_

– and knows that Castiel can’t be far.

Hell is more of an idea than an actual physical reality. But the problem is that _souls_ are not really physical, either. So Hell is created around what they expect, what they think it will be, and what the demons mold to fit their whims. It is ever changing, an undulating current of pain and fear at its foundation, holding it together as it shifts and alters. But this part of Hell, the part where the new souls go to be tortured and turned…this part rarely changes. Alistair perfected it, and ruled over it for so long that only the oldest demons could ever remember it being any different. Whoever is running the place now won’t have the nerve to change it for a very long time, no matter how dead Sam made Alistair.

Dean swallows, thinking that if Castiel had never pulled him out, it would probably be _him_ running it.

Once he stars walking, it does not take him long to find the correct room, his connection to the angel tugging him forward. On the black doorway in front of him, there are sigils carved and glowing, and he’s only thankful that the bit of grace he carries inside him has never been enough to be deterred by wards such as these. He pushes the door open, braced for whatever he’s about to see.

Castiel is more of a mess now then he was when Dean saw him in his dream. He knows that only a few hours have passed, but for Castiel, that means it has been days, maybe almost a month. Long days full of probably near endless torture, and each new injury he sees feels like a slice to Dean’s own soul.

Whatever demon has been torturing the angel is not around at the moment, and Dean sends a silent prayer of gratitude to a god he may or may not believe in. He steps forward, and Castiel looks up with bleary eyes that light up immediately upon seeing him.

The hunter smiles but holds a finger to his lips, knowing they need to be silent. In Hell, sound carries. Screams are amplified purely for the demons’ pleasure, but it’s the quiet words that they care about the most. The ones that can divulge secrets, that can lead to them knowing the best and most effective ways to break a soul. Dean used to talk…to himself, to Sammy, to his parents… It took him a long time to learn the fine art of silence.

He reaches up to the cuff at Castiel’s right wrist. The sliver of grace within him recoils at the touch of the cursed metal, but it’s not enough to keep him from his task. With practiced ease, he uses one of his lock picks to open the manacle, can’t help but be amused that demons and angels alike never seem to remember to ward against simple human interference. And then the cuff clicks open, and Castiel sags instantly, Dean catching him in his arms as he strokes a hand through his hair and murmurs quiet words of comfort. He quickly gets the other cuff undone, and Castiel drops to his knees, slumping into Dean’s arms.

“I knew you would come…” the angel whispers.

“Made you a promise, didn’t I?” the hunter replies, just as quietly. There is a noise from farther off, and it’s followed by screams and an answering, echoing laughter, and he stiffens. This has all been almost easy up until now, and it makes him wary. “Cas, we need to get out of here. I know you’re hurt, but there’s not another way.”

Castiel nods. “Close your eyes, Dean,” he says, drawing himself away from the hunter, though it looks like it physically pains him to hold himself up.

Dean obliges, and moments later feels arms come around him. There is a great whooshing sounds, and bright light stabs into his closed eyes, though it doesn’t seem to hurt the way he feels it should, and then he can’t think about it anymore because he’s too busy feeling completely weightless.

He knows, in some deep part of his mind, that Castiel is flying them out of Hell. That, for the second time, his angel is saving him from this place of pain and darkness and terror. He clings tightly to his salvation, breathes in the scent that is power, and grace, and _Cas_.

He loses track of time, forgets everything that isn’t the complete feeling of safety and warmth around him, and it isn’t until he’s suddenly on solid ground, with the blue sky above him and grass beneath his feet, that he gives any thought to _home_ , because home is right where he is.

Castiel releases him slowly, and he opens his eyes just in time to see the angel collapse.

\- + - + - + - + -

The following week is a study in patience and prayer. His experiences the day he rescued Castiel have gone a long way to solidifying his faith in God, not the least of which was the conversation he’d had with the other angel when she had found them in a field outside of Lawton, Michigan.

Dean sighs a little, remembering.

-  
 _He looks up into unnerving violet eyes. He is bent over Castiel, running his hands over him to check for any life-threatening injuries. There seem to be none, even the surface cuts and bruises are gone, but he can’t wake him._

_“You did well,” the angel says in her faraway voice. “The Host owes you a debt of gratitude for saving our brother.”_

_“Just make him well again,” Dean says, his eyes hard._

_She has the nerve to smile at him. “His grace was bound, his body broken in multitudes of ways, over and over again. He is weak now, but he will recover. My job here is done…my brother saved, the final seals replaced on the last open gateway to Hell. It is time for me to return home.”_

_Something tightens in his chest. “How will I know he’s okay?” he asks, his voice wrecked._

_“What do you mean?” she asks, with an expression that almost looks confused._

_He speaks through gritted teeth, hating just the thought with every piece of his heart, let alone the words. “When you take him back to…Heaven. How will I know he’s okay?”_

_She tilts her head, and he finds himself feeling particularly violent toward her for the emotion that one simple action evokes. “He did not tell you.”_

_“Tell me what?” he practically growls._

_“The day you defeated Lucifer, two days before Castiel was ambushed by the trap that wrenched him into Hell, he came face-to-face with our father. He was forgiven for his defection, more than that, he was_ commended _for it. He was welcomed back into the Host, offered the power of an archangel, filled with the glory of God. Faced with all of that, Castiel had only one thing to say. He bowed his head and told our father, ‘I wish to stay’.”_

_His eyes, wide and shocked, fly to the still face of his angel, and then slowly return to hers. “He can’t…he can’t stay. Won’t he Fall?”_

_She smiles again, steps forward to press a hand to his cheek. “Have faith, Dean Winchester. Good things do happen.”_

_And then he is back in the motel room where he left Sam, Cas laying peacefully on his bed, and the angel whose name he never learned is gone._  
-

Castiel has not moved since then. He has been so still that if not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Dean would fear he had gone and died while he wasn’t paying attention. Not that he ever _stops_ paying attention. The hunter has kept a steady vigil by his bed, sleeping only in fits and starts on the musty couch before resuming his post.

Sam has taken it upon himself to go out and bring back food and other necessities, to keep Bobby updated on what is (or isn’t) going on, and to force his older brother to remember to at least eat, sleep, and shower. He had some choice words for Dean when he found out exactly where he’d gone and what he’d done to bring Castiel home, but the tirade had ended with a firm hug and gruff words that meant nothing in translation but meant everything about family and love to the Winchesters. Dean is pathetically grateful to him, and has never been as thankful as he is now that Sam is his brother, that they beat the odds and came out of the Apocalypse with their souls and their relationship intact.

It isn’t until the eighth day that the angel finally shows signs of waking. Dean has set up the motel room’s uncomfortable lime green chair right next to the bed, and is leaning back with his feet propped up next to Castiel, a book open in his lap that he is pretending to read. Sam has left to go to the library, supposedly to do research, but Dean suspects more to simply escape the confines of the small room for a bit. They rarely stay in one place this long, and it has Sam edgy and tense.

The first twitch of Castiel’s hand goes unnoticed, focused as he is on reading the same word over and over again. But it is immediately followed by a soft sigh, barely a whisper of sound, and the book is on the floor and Dean leaning over the bed before it even has time to fully register.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, running a hand through the mussed cap of dark hair. “C’mon, damn you, wake up. Stop making me freak out already. _Please_ wake up.”

Blue eyes blink open slowly, and Castiel stares up at him. “Dean? Where…” He goes to sit up, but Dean doesn’t let him, pressing a hand to his shoulder and sitting on the bed beside him.

“Easy, you’ve been out for over a week,” he says gently, and if Castiel notices the uncharacteristic tone, he refrains from commenting.

“I was…drained,” Castiel says, his voice soft, his eyes staring up into Dean’s. “My grace needed time to recover. I am…mostly well, now.”

“Mostly?” Dean asks, and the haunted look in Castiel’s eyes is familiar to him, from too much time spent looking in a bathroom mirror.

Castiel looks away, his eyes resting on the collection of weapons lying on the table across the room. He visibly shudders, and Dean understands. Most of what he has here can be used as instruments of torture. It took him a long time to get over that himself, to be able to even look at a knife without feeling it carving into him or seeing himself carving into another soul, and for Castiel, it’s too fresh.

“I never broke,” Castiel whispers. “I’d like to believe I never would have. But the pain…there’s nothing to compare it to. Even when I was ripped from Jimmy’s body and… _cleansed_ … What seemed like torture in Heaven was nothing to the real thing in Hell. The only thing I had to hold on to was you. Your memory was all I had, Dean.”

Dean swallows hard, and then bends and presses his lips to Castiel’s forehead. “You’re out now. It’s over, and you’re here, safe. And…you still have me. Always. You should know that.”

Castiel is silent for long moments. “Before I was…taken, I was trying to find a way to tell you something. I was given the choice to be allowed to remain here. With you. If…”

The hunter does not allow him to finish before he cuts in with a quiet, “Stay. God, Cas, please stay.”

Relief shines from Castiel’s eyes, and Dean can see strength returning to him even as he watches. He cups a hand to Castiel’s cheek, gazes at him for long moments. This thing has been growing between them from the start, and they’ve ignored it, danced around it, thought about it endlessly, _wanted_ it for sure…but they have never acknowledged it outright. Now, though, their reasons for keeping silent aren’t an issue. Now the Apocalypse is over, and they’re both still here…and Castiel isn’t leaving.

He _really isn’t leaving._

He feels almost giddy, because that’s really only just now processing, and without pausing for another thought, he bends swiftly and captures Castiel’s lips with his.

The angel moans low in his throat, needing this, needing the comfort and love that Dean offers with every touch. He reaches a hand up to press against the back of Dean’s neck, pressing them closer, and his other hand goes to Dean’s waist, nimble fingers skating up underneath his t-shirt and leaving trails of heat where they touch along skin.

Dean shifts, pressing into Castiel, slowly grinding his hips down as his tongue traces along Castiel’s mouth. When that mouth opens on a sharp gasp, his tongue darts in and winds around the angel’s.

Things become frantic quickly…months, _years_ of waiting and wanting, of fighting and dying and praying and _loving_ , and everything just seems to explode outward. Hand grasp and tug off restricting clothing, mouths lick and suck at heated, sweat-slick skin. There are fiery gazes and murmured words of love in languages long dead, and when Castiel suddenly flips Dean over onto the bed, when he closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the hunter’s as he trembles above him, it is more intimate than anything either has ever known before.

“Cas,” Dean whispers. “Cas, I want to see you.”

The angel stiffens, pulling away and staring down at him. “I will not hurt you. Please don’t ask that of me. We don’t know -”

Dean reaches up and presses a finger to Castiel’s lips. “Cas,” he says gently, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “God didn’t give the okay to you staying here, he didn’t send an angel to send _me_ down to Hell to save you, just to let my eyes burn out now. Part of your grace is _inside_ me. I think we’ll be okay.”

“But before, when I first met you…”

“I was fresh from Hell, fresh out of faith in God, and I hadn’t saved the world yet. Also? I wasn’t in love with an angel who had been personally blessed by his father.”

Castiel’s worried frown melts into that half smile Dean loves, and his eyes soften considerably. He leans down and kisses Dean again, branding him, _marking him_ with his lips the same way he branded him with his hand so long ago.

_Mine._

And Dean’s answering moan replies, _Always._

When Castiel pulls away, Dean tries to follow, whimpering just a little. “I will not give you what you ask for, Dean, not yet, not until we know more for sure.” When Dean opens his mouth to argue, he is shushed with another light kiss. “But I will give you something. Close your eyes, just for a moment.”

Dean swallows the protest he’d been ready to make, trusting Castiel more than he’s ever trusted himself. He allows his eyes to slip closed.

There is a familiar rushing sound, and a gentle breeze tickles his bare skin. There is brilliant light against his eyelids, and then it dims and Castiel’s fingers are touching his cheek. “You may open them now,” he says, and he sounds…anxious.

Bottle green eyes gaze up into summer blue, and then drift, widening as they take in the brilliant wings curved over them. They are whiter than the first snowfall, soft downy feathers cascading over smooth lines, large enough that, even curved upward, the tips touch the floor on either side of the bed. They are pure, beautiful in a way that Dean has trouble truly perceiving. And they are so much a part of his angel that he wonders how Castiel ever appeared normal to him _without_ them. Awed, he reaches up, his hand trembling only just slightly. Before he touches, he looks to Castiel for permission, and it is granted with a single nod.

The feathers are softer than he’d been able to imagine, and there is a feeling of power to them. When he first touches one wing, electricity tingles up his arm and jolts through his body, and he lets it fill him even as he sees Castiel’s eyes close and his mouth opens on a soft cry. The energy continues to sizzle through him as he cards his fingers gently through the feathers, and Castiel is so hard against him, still moaning and releasing small, gasping sobs. When Dean’s fingers find the juncture where wing meets flesh, though, that is when Castiel breaks.

After that, there is only light, and heat, and need, and it burns through them both as they move against each other. Dean will never be able to recall later where the oil came from, or how Castiel managed to draw away long enough to slick his fingers, but when he sets about preparing Dean, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except having more, having _everything_ , and Castiel gives it and more.

When they come together, it is more than coming home. It is perfection, it is _paradise_ , and it is theirs. Sensation sweeps through him and around him and leaves him on the edge of falling, and he holds on just long enough to be sure he can bring Castiel with him.

\- + - + - + - + -

Later, lying together on a freshly made motel bed, curled into and around each other as though the thought of letting go is physically painful, Dean looks at Castiel and smiles a sleepy smile. “You’re really here,” he says, because this is a dream that has never come true before.

“I really am,” is the quiet reply, Castiel’s spine curving as he leans to kiss the crown of Dean’s head.

They each have their scars to bear, and it will be a long time before all is truly right within them. But as the hunter and the angel who each traveled the through the flames of perdition to save the other fall asleep, they are content in the knowledge that they are together, and they can overcome anything as long as that holds true.


End file.
